


To Lend a Hand

by Wahkeetcha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:58:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahkeetcha/pseuds/Wahkeetcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos meets one of Aramis' friends from his time before the Musketeers and decides to offer his hand to a friend in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lend a Hand

**Author's Note:**

> first Musketeer story I've posted. Wasn't really sure how to end it, so the ending probably is terrible.

To Lend a Hand 

“Monsieur Aramis!” a young voice cuts through the noise of the garrison training yard. Numerous recruits turn to stare at the girl, her face red from exertion while the seasoned Musketeers try to intercept the child, their duties momentarily forgotten. 

“Monsieur Aramis!” she calls again, pausing in her stride to scan the gruff faces of the regiment. The girl bobs and weaves between several of the Musketeers, their calls for her to stop going unheard as she searches. The table off to the side of the training yard is covered in various bits of leather and buckles, the jovial conversation between the two men seated at the table halting as the small blond wanders by. 

“She’s a little young for recruitment.” D’Artangan remarks as his hunting knife saws through the dry rotted leather of a rein. Porthos watches the child curiously as she turns to look at them, her lower chin trembling slightly but hands fisted at her sides. 

“I am looking for Monsieur Aramis.” She states, voice wavering slightly while her large eyes begin to well with tears. Porthos sets down the sword belt he was working on and pushes himself off the bench, kneeling in the dirt so as not to scare the girl. 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place then. I’m Aramis’ friend Porthos.” The large man introduces himself and offers his massive hand to the little girl. “Now, may I know the name of this fair lady?” he asks. The little girl stares at his hand and pulls in a shuddering breath, trying to rein in her emotions at being delayed from her search. 

“Collette, my name is Collette.” She responds bravely but goes back to scanning the faces of the musketeers for her quarry, hopelessness gripping her heart. “Please, I need to find Monsieur Aramis. It’s urgent.” She pleads once more, the momentary cease of tears ending as fresh drops track their way down her cheeks. 

“Okay, come with me.” Porthos commands and pushes himself to his feet, extending his hand for Collette to take. The small hand clutches at the larger one and the two set off at a brisk pace towards the armory. Just as Porthos is about to swing the door open Aramis ploughs through it, distracted by a conversation with a new recruit. 

“Aramis!” Collette calls and tears her hands from Porthos’, running to the man and clamoring at his doublet. The sharpshooter quickly thrusts the musket at the recruit and drops to one knee, his hands on the thin shoulders of the child. Collette, outright sobbing at finding her quarry pleads with the man, pulling on his doublet. 

“Please! Its papa, he’s been hurt. Nana is worried. Please come! Please…” she pleads as she pulls at the older man’s clothing, her small frame wracked with sobs. Aramis gently releases the little girl’s hands from his doublet and stands, eyes roving over to Porthos.

“Of course I will come. Collette, I have to gather my bag so you’re going to stay here with Porthos. I’ll only be a moment.” Aramis placates and gives the hysterical child a gentle push towards the large man before pushing through the small gathering of onlookers and heading for his quarters. 

“Hey now, would you like some bread and honey?” Porthos offers, guiding the child back to the table and picking her up to sit on the stump. Collette hiccups and shakes her head no, hands wringing in his lap as she watches for Aramis anxiously. Within minutes the sharpshooter returns, his saddlebag slung over one shoulder, his hat already on his head. Collette jumps off the stump and trots along beside the musketeer, her small legs working double time to keep up. Porthos snatches his own hat from the table top and falls into step beside the small girl.

“Papa fell. He was trying to repair a hole in the roof.” Collette states solemnly, her breathing strained from trying to keep up with the two men. Porthos acknowledges the small girls tenacity but scoops her up in a single move and places her over shoulders.

“Can you tell me if he was bleeding?” Aramis asks as Collette grasps at Porthos’ curls to keep her balance on the man’s broad shoulders. 

“yes he was. Nana was worried. She sent me to find you.” Collette surmises as Aramis steers his entourage off the main thoroughfare and through narrow side streets, his pace quickening. Porthos memorizes the landmarks as they pass, noting how Aramis navigates the streets and nods greeting to several people. 

“You’ve been down this way before.” The burly musketeer deducts, glancing quickly at the marksman who gives him a small smirk. 

“You can say that.” He dismisses before stopping at a small weather beaten house and rapping quickly on the door. Collette squirms on Porthos’ shoulders until the larger man relents and drops the child gently onto the cobblestone street. Collette shoves into the large door, the heavy obstacle slamming into the wall behind it. Aramis removes his hat and enters without a word to his companions. The interior of the small house is cluttered but well lived in. Scraps of parchment with childish drawings in black charcoal are tacked up in various places, a fire crackles softly in a generous stone hearth. 

“Oh good.” An older woman remarks, breathing out a sigh of relief at the sight of Aramis placing his hat on the hearth table and swinging his medical bag down beside it.

“Liane, what happened?” Aramis asks, dipping his hands into the steaming bowl of water. The elderly woman eyes Porthos suspiciously, her lips pulled downward in a scowl. 

“Liane, this is my friend Porthos, he is also a Musketeer.” Aramis provides, drying his hands on a clean towel left beside the bowl.

“Ah, Aramis I’m glad you could come.” A baritone voice states from the doorway to the bedrooms beyond the kitchen as a large, hulking figure staggers its way forward with Collette tucked against the large man’s thigh as an odd and frail looking crutch. Liane gives a curse and pulls a chair out at the table, urging the bearded man to use it. 

“Telfer, I swear on God’s name…” Liane curses, her wizened face falling with sympathy as the hulking man gives a groan.

“Yes mother, I know. I know. But it’s easier to treat a man here in the kitchen than in the back bedroom is it not Aramis?” Telfer implores, grasping a stained bandage on his leg.

“I am staying out of your arguments with your mother old friend.” Aramis smiles easily, and gives a playful whine of pain when Liane pokes the sharpshooter in the ribs with a thin finger. Porthos watches the exchange, feeling like an outsider looking into a private moment. He has seen Aramis interact with numerous injured parties, but this seems like a family moment. 

“How did this happen?” Aramis asks, cutting through the stained bandage quickly with his main gauche, the blade sharpened to a razor edge and slices through the fabric easily. Telfer gives a rumble and shifts in his seat and grips the table with one arm as Aramis probes the area with his fingers. It was at this moment Porthos notices the man’s single arm, the other hanging by his side the sleeve pinned up past the elbow. Growing up in the Court, Porthos had seen many men with similar injuries and some that pretended to have those types of handicaps, to not be caught staring he simply allows his eyes to wander to the numerous charcoal drawings and drying herbs hung around the small room. 

“I was trying to patch my roof. We had rain in the kitchen, ruined some of mother’s herbs.” Telfer responds sheepishly, his large fingers drumming a nervous beat. Aramis gives a sigh and pats the larger man’s thigh. 

“Well, you’ve earned several stitches. Did you manage to patch the hole?” Aramis asks while replacing the pressure bandage before calling Collette over. “Can you keep your hand right there? Nice and tight. Good girl.” He instructs and stands, moving about the kitchen and preparing his instruments. Liane bustles about and snatches several gatherings of herbs, placing them on the large table away from Aramis’ items. Porthos glances up, noticing the water damage on the upstairs floorboards.

“Do you have the supplies to finish? I can get up there and repair it for you.” Porthos offers quickly, hating to stand idle and hating the idea of the small domicile sustaining more damage. Telfer huffs out a breath and gives Porthos a simple once over before responding. 

“I am waiting for my King’s Kindness to be dispensed. Should be in the next few days, I will buy the supplies then. Right now I was simply going to patch the hole with a pitched cloth nailed to the shingles.” He dismisses easily enough. Porthos can see the pride in the man before him, although missing a limb-obviously lost due to battle- he was fiercely independent and wanting to provide for his small family. Aramis gives a tight smile as he threads the curved needle, fingers swiftly moving through the ingrained motions. 

“Okay Collette, you can release your hold. Thank you for your assistance.” Aramis supplies the small girl with a happy grin which the child returns. Porthos moves across the kitchen to stand just to Telfer’s left, staying out of the light but at the proper angle to catch the large man if he were to pass out or try and hit Aramis in the process of stitching. Aramis and Telfer keep up a robust stream of banter and jokes as the Musketeer works, the larger man’s voice breaking from its steady tone occasionally as the wound is sewn shut. 

“Then there was that nasty business at the Isle.” Telfer sobers dramatically, his remaining arm going to clutch at the stump of his missing limb. The room goes silent, the sound of the marble tumbler against bowl as Liane continues to pound her paste.

“We need not speak of that.” Aramis returns quickly, casting a worried glance at Porthos as he finishes tying off the knotted bandage and standing, wincing as his knees crack and he moves stiffly to rinse his hands of the man’s blood. Porthos understands the reluctance of hearing the story told again, he’d met many men who would rather forget some battles ever happened. His curiosity piqued though at the thought of learning a bit more o Aramis’ time serving in the military. Porthos knew the sharpshooter had been a regimented soldier and a veteran of several military maneuvers before being commissioned into the Musketeer regiment, but he rarely speaks of his time as a common soldier. 

“How about I go up and see to setting your roof to order until you can get the supplies?” Porthos tries again and this time Telfer simply grunts and waves at him, his strong jaw set in a hard line. 

“That would be very kind of you Porthos.” Liane smiles but her wizened face falls briefly “I can’t pay you now for the service, perhaps next week.” She begins but is quickly cut off by the larger man’s hand coming up to silence her next words. 

“Madame, I am offering my help as a kindness from one soldier to another. I expect no payment for being a decent person. My mother would have beaten me senseless.” He adds in a whisper as he passes her, giving the woman a quick wink before shuffling out the door and around the side of the small house, eyes roving over the pitch of the shingle roof. Telfer and his family are lucky, the shingle roofs are easily repaired and sturdier against the winters than the thatched roofs he’d grown up around. Around the back of the building and to the right of the hearth stands a rickety ladder, the oil cloth and nails sitting precariously next to the chimney. With a contemplative jostle of the ladder Porthos begins his climb, humming a cheerful tune as he sets about patching the soldier’s roof. 

\--  
An hour later Porthos touches the ground, wiping his hands on his breeches with a feeling of satisfaction. He always liked working with his hands and found the manual labor to be almost relaxing. The patch will hold for a short while, but true repairs would have to be done soon. Keeping this in mind Porthos raps on the door once and pushes it open, entering the abode see Aramis cleaning his tools and repacking the satchel. Telfer still sits in the same chair with his leg propped up, the bright white bandage a stark contrast to his dark brown trousers. Aramis stands across from him, fingers nimbly bundling several dried herbs as Liane passes them too him. The old woman bustles about the kitchen snatching dried bundles and rattling off their properties to the medic. 

“This one, this one take three leaves and crush them with those orange flowers. Steep it for thirty minutes and then give it to the injured, it will booster their energy and lighten their breathing.” She all but thrusts the two herb bundles as Aramis who reluctantly takes them with a placating smile. 

 

“Liane, I have plenty of your herbs left over from the last time I visited. You have repaid me enough, it was only fifteen stitches.” Aramis tries to reason, his words failing to stop the woman’s hunt.

“Nonsense Aramis, you have taken care of my boy and my little grandchild enough times to warrant my kindness. You should have enough herbs and tincture to carry you through for a while now. I won’t send you from my home ill stocked.” Liane states, thrusting two more bundles at the sharpshooter, the man simply placing the labeled bundles in his satchel. 

“Ah, Porthos. How is the roof?” Aramis asks suddenly all but shoving the attention away from him and onto Porthos.

“I’ve patched it up as best I could. When you get your supplies send word to the garrison and I will come and make the repairs myself.” Porthos offers, moving closer to the table. 

“Thank you Monsieur Porthos, your kindness to an old soldier will not be forgotten.” Telfer states, offering up his single ham sized hand in a gesture of thanks.

“It is an honor to help one who has served.” Porthos supplies easily and gives a nod to Liane. The elderly woman looks around her home, the agitation clear on her wizened features. 

“Madame, I don’t require anything as payment. Your herbs have saved my life and the lives of my brothers on numerous occasions. Without them I’m sure Aramis wouldn’t be half the battlefield medic he is.” Porthos complements as the elderly woman blushes before touching Telfer’s shoulder. 

“Well, I think we should be on our way back before we are missed. Telfer, remember what I said about those stitches.” Aramis chimes, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and ushering Porthos towards the door. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Telfer dismisses lightly “Like I’d listen to a half hack like you.” Aramis gives a chuckle at the joked insult and gives a final wave before shutting the door behind him. Scooting the satchel, now laden with herbs and the light clink of bottles; further up his shoulder the two men weave their way back through the streets. Porthos gives his friend a full three buildings before allowing his curiosity to command his tongue. 

“So, you and Telfer have been friends for a long time?” he asks idly, barely glancing at his friend. Aramis is quiet for a few minutes, so long Porthos fears he wouldn’t respond when Aramis finally clears his throat and answers. 

“We were in the same regiment, both young and trying to find our legs in military life. We grew into seasoned soldiers and fought side by side for several years.” Aramis smiles, his gaze far away. 

“Then there was the siege. Montauban saw the end of our partnership. Telfer and I were scouting for any type of activity when we were ambushed. We managed to take out three but the remaining four put us into a crevice between two boulders, trapped. It wasn’t a life or death situation, there was another party barely a mile away and they were on their way- luckily. Telfer and I exchanged fire with the opposing group, picking off their numbers.” Aramis pauses then and stops. Porthos waits quietly, trying to imagine the Aramis standing before him- the one who doesn’t flinch, the one whose eyes grow cold and dead when one of his own are threatened and fights with a cruel efficiency born of necessity- being a young soldier pressed into a corner. 

“A shot got lucky, Telfer was hit. The ball shattered the bones of his elbow joint.” Aramis states with a clinical coolness that Porthos has heard many times when Aramis has had a brother under his care. Porthos gives a sympathetic wince, having seen such injuries during past battles and listened to the desperate howls of the injured. 

“The other men managed to kill the enemies pinning us and we rushed Telfer back to base camp. The surgeon there, he was very good at treating the basic battlefield maladies but he had no idea what to do for Telfer.” Aramis continues, hitching the pack higher on his should in a nervous manner, long fingers playing with a group of frayed stitches. 

“The surgeon drugged him with poppy so he wouldn’t feel the pain, cleaned the wound the best he could and moved on, content with letting the man die of gangrene. Already the wound had started to fester, the powder and oils seeping into his blood. Telfer was going to die- painfully on a surgeon’s table.” Anger laces the words, Aramis’ eyes growing cold at the memory of the over worked and easily dissuaded battlefield medic. Porthos allows the man the time to wallow in his memories, their walk slowing to a crawl on the busy street. 

“I snuck into the hospital tent the day after, Telfer was still drugged and singing loudly, happily unaware of the toxins slowly killing him as the flesh on his arm began to fester and spoil. The smell; it was unlike anything I have encountered since, I can sometimes still smell it. Like flint and whetstone against good iron.” Aramis pauses and licks his lips before continuing “My friend laid there, dying. Unable to comprehend the fate the surgeon just sealed him too. I couldn’t stand there and wait for that man to die, day after day, slowly being killed by his own arm. So, I did something about it.” Porthos, not shocked to hear the admission of his long-time friend was still slightly taken aback at the idea of a friend sawing through the arm of another.

“I tied him to the table and used my own gauche belt to tie off the upper portion of his arm. Telfer sobered not long into my preparation, his rowdy song ceasing as realization and fear cut through the poppy induced haze. He looked at me Porthos. Me, untrained medically, untested resolve beyond firing bullets and swinging a sword and simply nodded, accepting.” Aramis pauses once more, his usually tanned pallor turning greyish. “I have never felt more honored to be trusted with another human life than I did at that moment Porthos. It’s terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.”

“Come now, you’ve worked on all of us hundreds of times with varying types of injuries.” Porthos reasons, unsure of how to remove the haunted stare his friend directs at him. Aramis is a man of few emotions, there is a side he allows the others to see, boisterous and lively, fun and sarcastic. The Aramis portrayed off the battlefield. Then there is the Aramis who has seen so many horrors, seen the slaying of twenty close friends and stood amongst their cold corpses. The Aramis who sometimes has to convince himself to get out of bed in the morning and plaster the jovial veneer over his haunted soul. 

“That was the first time I had ever worked on a man who knew either way, he faced death. I could have easily killed him Porthos and he accepted that. He said after ‘better to die by the helpful hand of a friend than to die because of an unhelpful one.’ I took the surgeon’s bone saw and cut through the muscle and bone of Telfer’s arm, thus saving his life.” Aramis concludes, his words still tinged with awe as his voice shakes. Porthos offers the other man his support, clasping his shoulder and pulling him into his side. Aramis allows himself to be pulled and maneuvered, the act of kindness going without word but appreciated none the less. 

“The surgeon wanted me court martialed when he learned what I had done. He had every right to demand it too, I wasn’t a physician. I wasn’t even a trained medic. I wasn’t anything but the lowly soldier who happened to translate medical tomes from Latin into French. But I was the man of a friend who managed to survive a grievous injury because of my actions. The infection that would have killed him began to subside within days of losing the limb. When our regiment was given orders to move out and return to Paris I didn’t have to leave him buried there. He was given a place on the list of those former soldiers receiving King’s Kindness. Because I made the decision to remove the portion of his arm, I still have my friend living in Paris.” Aramis concludes, his words not rushed but strong and assertive, the tone same tone Porthos had grown use too hearing. Aramis enters the garrison and drops boneless onto one of the chairs by the table, his medical sack now brimming with herbs and tinctures placed carefully on the sanded top. Porthos had seen the faraway look in his friend’s dark eyes numerous times before to know to head off the approaching melancholy. 

“You up for a spar?” Porthos asks while making a show of stretching his shoulders and rolling the tension out of his neck. Aramis glances at the larger man before allowing his fingers to drum on the table top before allowing a wide smile to split is handsome face. 

“Only if you promise not to take it easy on me.” Aramis’ grin turns downright feral as he gets to his feet and shucks out of his long doublet. Porthos gives a hearty bark of laughter before stripping from his own leather, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt before unsheathing his sword. Already the two have drawn a crowd within the garrison, many of their brothers halting their own training to watch as the two-infamous for the brutal and jocular bouts- square off. 

 

Nearly nine days after visiting Telfer, Athos pushes through the door to Porthos’ quarters in time to raise his eyes brows at the colorful swearing spewing from the large man’s mouth. Aramis gives an exasperated sigh and pushes against the bruised and swollen flesh across the other man’s back. The air is thick with the sharp smell of horse liniment, the muscle soothing liquid greasing the Spaniards hands as he works the liquid into the abused back of their friend. 

“A messenger came today. I was kind enough to give the boy some coins as payment.” Athos states, throwing himself into the beaten up chair by the single window, sharp eyes watching as Aramis works and the expressions flickering across Porthos’ face. 

“Oh, how kind of you.” Aramis remarks airily, smiling as he continue to rub in the liquid, occasionally stopping to give the badly wrenched muscles a moment to relax before continuing. 

“Yes, it was a message to Porthos saying that ‘the supplies are purchased if your offer still stands Monsieur Porthos.’ Signed by a man named Telfer.” Athos delivers as Porthos gives another vicious swear. 

“Damn it.” He finishes as Aramis gives him the go ahead to lay back into his pillow. 

“I will send him a message.” Aramis begins but is quickly cut off by a wave of Porthos’ large hand. 

“No, no. I promised him I would be able to repair his roof, I’ll be damned if I let my promise slip by.” Porthos grunts, pushing himself up from the pillows only to sharply pull air between his teeth and lay back down quickly. 

“You may get to your feet friend, but climbing a ladder and moving shingles isn’t going to happen. I will simply send Telfer a message back saying the repairs will have to wait.” Aramis concludes, giving the muscled shoulder a pat before replacing the salve in his medical bag. Athos, having been informed of why the two men disappeared from the Garrison understands why the larger man is so adamant. 

“No, it can’t wait. Serge is sure it’s going to rain soon and we all know he is seldom wrong.” Porthos argues once more, distress twisting his handsome features. Porthos is a man of honor, his word is the only currency he was able to depend on growing up in the Court and Athos knows from prior situations that once his word is given Porthos will go to great lengths to make sure his promise is fulfilled. 

“Hold off sending that message, let me do some poking at the new recruits.” Athos offers, a plan already forming in his head as Porthos gives a miserable sigh and leans helplessly back into his pillows. Aramis lends the despondent man as much support as possible before he leaves to attend to his own duties. 

^^

The next morning Porthos stands beside Aramis and Athos, his back spasms sharply as he breathes deeply, trying to desperately ignore the sharp pulses. Three days of laying on his back in bed didn’t improve his disposition and he grew sourer daily. Morning muster, where all Musketeers report before the Captain for their daily orders. 

“It has been brought to my attention that a friend of one of our brothers- a former soldier for the King who was injured- needs assistance from his brothers in arms.” Treville stands before his men, hands clasped behind his back and breath frosting in the early morning air. Athos shifts minutely beside Porthos and the large man allows a grin to split his features. 

“All those who don’t have orders- which I will pass out momentarily- will accompany Porthos and Aramis to the solder’s home.” He finishes and begins assigning details to groups and single Musketeers. By the end of muster, a group of six new recruits milled about the training yard. 

“You lot, you have the honor of helping your brother’s improve the living standards of a wounded member of our military. If any of you think this charitable gesture is below you, walk out of the yard now.” Captain Treville fixates the group of commission hopefuls with a steely gaze. Porthos knows that at least two of the young men are ‘purchased commissions’- the sons of rich merchants who could gain access to the regiment by buying their way into the garrison. Talented, yes. But not battle hardened or tactful in their approaches with the older soldiers in the regiment. Much to his and Aramis’ surprise none of the young men move, their faces clearly stating their thoughts.

“Very good. Porthos, Aramis I suggest you get moving.” Treville nods and Aramis steps forward to address the small group of their mission. Porthos shares a look with his Captain, a simple nod of thanks passing between the two men before the older soldier turns on his heel and heads for his office.

^^

Six hours later the tired group of recruits collapse in various places throughout the garrison, their hands dirty and calloused while Porthos and Aramis sort out the tools they had brought with them to Telfer’s home. The recruits had thrown themselves into their work, stripping, pitching and shingling the entire roof, not just the small hole- one of the purchased commissions had thrown in a few coins and called in a few favors to get more supplies delivered. Porthos, still restricted from doing any kind of heavy labor- mixed the pitch and operated the pulley’s that brought the melted substance to the roof.

“All went well?” Treville asks, moving to stands beside Porthos as a few thick droplets of water begin to fall from the rapidly greying sky. Porthos nods “Yes, those boys worked hard all day and got the entire roof done. Just in time it seems.” He remarks, moving stiffly under the awning while watching those few Musketeers still in the yard scramble to get under cover as the sky lets loose. 

“Thank you, for assigning the recruits.” Aramis states as he too crosses beneath the cascading water to stand in the dry. Treville gives a simple nod “I wouldn’t allow any man who’s served his country to have substandard living conditions while I have able bodies ready to work.” The Captain states simply. Porthos and Aramis share a look as their Captain walks away, the downpour loud as the rain pounds into the dry earth of the training yard. 

“Serge is always right.” Aramis remarks happily and Porthos gives a hearty chuckle. 

“Indeed.” 

END.


End file.
